


Recordare

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddlefucking, Desperate kissing in the rain, Dream Sex, Gentle Sex, M/M, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Tim wakes up, and knows he shouldn’t have.





	Recordare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flammenkobold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flammenkobold/gifts).



Martin was more forceful than Tim had ever dreamed he’d be. Not rough, not that Tim would mind that either. It’d almost be less surprising if he were rough, all that mindless worry channeled into something useful for once. But instead Martin was determined, brow furrowing in a way Tim barely recognized.

They stumbled into the room, clothes seeming to vanish in the blink of an eye as Martin’s hands smoothed over Tim’s skin, pushing him onto the bed so he was lying on his stomach. Another blink, and Martin was straddling him, thighs pressed firm against his, slick fingers pushing inside. Gentle, but purposeful and far too slow. When Tim tried to buck into the touch, force Martin deeper, there was a hand on his hip, tightening, holding him down.

“Fuck, can you just get on with it?” 

Tim squirmed, but it was no use. Martin shouldn’t be able to hold him with only one hand, but he could, and it wasn’t like Tim objected, not really. Complaining was just part of the back and forth between them. And he was rewarded when Martin twisted his fingers, pressing up against Tim’s prostate, rubbing gently and pulling a moan from Tim. The grip on his hip loosened, but Tim wasn’t struggling anymore, happy to let Martin set the slow, tortuous pace. 

“I—I want to make it good for you,” Martin said, and pressed harder, and fuck, of course it was good, and if Martin couldn’t tell that he was a bigger idiot than Tim had thought. His cock was hard and throbbing against the soft mattress, and his hands were fisted in the sheets. Just where Martin wanted them, though he couldn’t remember why he knew that, why he cared. 

Martin rolled him onto his side, and the angle was awkward as his hand wrapped around Tim’s cock. Or it should be awkward, should be uncomfortable, impossible, but it wasn’t, fingers still inside him, lips pressed against his back, his neck, his cheek. The hand around his cock tightened, wringing a desperate moan from his lips, and the room seemed to blur around him, the lamp flashing a garish red, but no, that was wrong. Martin caressed him again and again, like he’d done countless times before and never done at all. His hand was the perfect circle, and Tim bucked into it, and with another blink he came, held tightly in Martin’s arms, back pressed to his chest. 

For a moment, they just lay there, Tim listening to the beating of Martin’s heart, the syncopation of his breath. He wanted to ask Martin what he needed, what he wanted, but Martin had gone soft and pliant against his back, so he must be okay, fingers stroking slowly over Tim’s chest, tracing letters onto his skin.

“Writing poetry?” Tim asked, half-joking and half-serious, like he so often was. It worked well with people like Martin, so used to hiding what they loved, shielding their feelings by pretending they didn’t really care. 

“I—yeah, I am.” He shifted, pulling away before Tim could follow, the mattress creaking beneath him. Tim turned onto his back to follow, eyes catching on a pen now in Martin’s hand, skin tingling at the touch of Martin’s fingers on his shoulder.

“Turn over,” Martin said, giving a shove for emphasis.

“I really don’t think either of us are quite ready for another round. Unfortunately thirty doesn’t seem to have quite the stamina twenty did.”

The sad smile was strange, given the lighthearted comment, but then Martin had always been a bit odd. 

“That’s not—” Martin sighed, and pushed some hair out of Tim’s face, his hand shaking in a way that didn’t make sense. “I just want to try something.” Tim raised an eyebrow, and Martin rolled his eyes. “Not sex.” 

Tim’s gaze went to the pen, and he got the idea, rolling back onto his stomach. “Just don’t give me any tattoos I’d regret. Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it.”

A huff was all the answer he got, and fair enough, though he wasn’t kidding. But it wasn’t like it was the weirdest thing Martin had probably done, and it certainly wasn’t the weirdest thing Tim has done. Just a bit different than he was used to, sappy in a way that was uniquely Martin. Maybe that was why Tim was so happy to accede. 

Even expecting it, Tim twitched at the first strokes of letters on his skin, sharper than he expected, almost as if Martin were carving them into his skin. No tattoos, he almost repeated, but that was ridiculous, it was only sharp because it was a fountain pen. Maybe not the best for writing on skin, but like the tape recorders, Martin probably thought it had a certain vintage charm. So Tim let it go, even enjoyed it a bit, the scrape and slide on sensitive skin. How it felt real, in a way the soft light around him didn’t, in the way nothing really did beyond the press of Martin’s fingers on his back, holding him still.

“What’s it say?” 

“Oh, I—” The writing stopped, and seconds and minutes and hours ticked past. The candlelight flickered. It was a very Martin thing to do, replacing that lamp with a candle. “It doesn’t say anything, really. I just want something to remember.”

Remember?

“Remember what?”

Martin’s only answer was a kiss pressed to the nape of his neck, where sweat damp hair met skin. There was something he was missing, something important, but he didn’t want to argue with Martin, not anymore. And he was just so very, very tired. 

The lamp flickered red again, and strange music drifted into his ears. But no, that was wrong. They were alone, and the lamp was a candle. Or was it?

“Martin, where are we?”

Before Martin could stop him, he turned onto his back. Martin was crying, and that the pen was a knife. But Tim wasn’t afraid, because he knew that Martin was real. How did he know that? Why did that matter?

“Martin, what’s happening? This hasn’t—” Hasn’t happened before. Was there a before? Why couldn’t he remember?”

“Maybe it’s time,” Martin said, and Tim hated the resignation in his voice. Don’t give up, he wanted to shout. Don’t you dare give up. But he couldn’t seem to find his voice, and the world was sharpening around him. It was all Tim could do to hold onto that. That this wasn’t right. That Martin was missing something, missing all the clues. That he hadn’t yet realized that this—

Firm ground beneath his back, cold and smelling faintly of manure and morning damp. Everything hurt, like he’d been torn apart and poorly repaired. And considering where he’d been, what he’d done, maybe he had been stitched together like a much loved child’s toy.

—wasn’t a dream.

Fuck. It wasn’t a dream. He opened his eyes and squinted into the faint light peeking through the clouds. He was lying in a field who the fuck knew where. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet. Across the field he could see a man leaning idly against a fence, occasionally looking up from his phone to keep an eye on a placid flock of sheep. Tim limped across the field towards him, while time passed with painful regularity. 

Finally he reached the man, clearing his throat. Ignored, but then he was so engrossed maybe he hadn’t heard Tim.

“Hey, so I seem to have had a bit of a wild night.” 

The man looked up from his phone, but only to check the sheep again before returning to scrolling, as content and mindless as the sheep. Figured.

Tim cleared his throat again. Still no response. He shouted. Nothing. Then he shoved a hand against the man’s shoulder and watched in shock as it went right through. His eyes flicked down to the phone, and locked onto a headline. The man was checking the news. It’d been four months since the Unknowing, four months since Tim— 

It didn’t matter. More important right now, he seemed to be invisible. And there was only one place he knew where he could deal with that. Maybe no one would help him there either. It’d probably only make it worse.

But there was an itching between his shoulder blades, a memory of a dream, and despite himself, Tim almost felt eager to get back, to find out what the waking world might hold. 

***

Getting to the Institute was easier than Tim expected, because while he couldn’t touch people, his problems with insubstantially didn’t seem to extend to objects. So it was simple enough to hop onto a bus, a train, the tube, and then finally trudge up those familiar stone steps.

It didn’t look like it’d changed at all, the same researchers and admins he recognized making their way in and out, alone with whatever poor sods were stupid enough to come tell their stories to the Archives. None of them gave him the wary glances he’d become so used to in his last months here. He wished they would. He was long past wanting to just be left alone. 

As he headed inside and made his way down to the Archives, that last thought caught up to him. He hung onto the molding around the final door. He’d been so focused on fixing the problem, he’d never really considered the weight of it all. How fucked up it was that he went in prepared to die, and came out half-alive. That was probably why it’d happened. That as what the spooks went for, wasn’t it? Perverting everything you wanted, everything you feared, into something more horrible than you could ever imagine. And maybe this wasn’t so bad, not yet. He could almost see it as a holiday, a chance to get away. But that wouldn’t last. The loneliness would grow oppressive, weighing him down worse than anything Elias could ever conjure up, until there was nothing left of the person he was, the person he already barely remembered, from before he went to work in the Archives. 

He had to find Martin.

The Archives were eerie in how little they’d changed, beyond some suspicious looking bloodstains and a set of cots set up near the tunnels. On one, Melanie seemed to be having a nightmare, hands scrabbling against the thin fabric of her only blanket. Not that Tim could blame her. He didn’t know her well, and didn’t like her from the few interactions they’d had, but of all the people here, she’d seemed to get it the most. So it was no surprise she was having nightmares, and less surprise she seemed to sleep with a knife under her pillow.

He almost considered waking her, just to see if he could, but the knife gave him pause. If anyone couldn’t see him, it’d be the other assistants, and he wasn’t sure he’d trust her not to stab first and ask questions never. He wouldn’t blame her for it either. He certainly wouldn’t trust a ghost.

The word settled on him like a weight. A ghost, was that what he was? Jon had always dismissed the idea, and while in the early days Tim had hoped, he’d long since let it go himself. At least not ghosts of his type, ones that weren’t just another sort of monster. 

He took a deep breath, and turned back to the door in time to see Basira walk through, looking harder than she ever had before. Not frantic and furious like Melanie, but determined, wary. Good. Someone had to have their shit together around here. And maybe, just maybe he could get through to her. 

“Boo,” he said, loud enough she should be able to hear, but she didn’t even glance up. Too focused, or was she also unable to sense him at all? He crossed the room, waved a hand in front of her face. Still no reaction. He tapped her shoulder, and watched his hand pass through. Fuck. 

If she couldn’t see him, did that mean Martin wouldn’t be able to either? Maybe Jon—but no. It’d been Martin in the dream, or whatever the hell it had been. And he knew it had been real Martin, because Tim’s dream Martin would never have acted like that. A lot more grovelling, a lot less crying and weird poetry. And while the fucking wasn’t unexpected, it’d been…different, when it’d happened in the past, in the dreams he’d been sure were really dreams. Before the Unknowing. 

“Where’s Martin?” Tim said, on the off chance that’d get through to Basira. But she just sat down at her desk, pulling out a laptop. Maybe he’d get something from that. He stared over her shoulder as she opened her email, hands tightening as she opened a recent email. An email indicating Martin had been reassigned as personal assistant to Peter Lukas, Acting Head of the Magnus Institute. 

Well, fuck.

So Martin’s plan had worked, but who the hell was Lukas? And why did the name sound familiar? Something to do with shipping? He vaguely remembered the name on his tongue. Captain of some freighter with some creepy cargo, and he’d tried to flirt is way into getting records, but the responsible parties had proved unfortunately resistant. But he couldn’t remember anything else, how involved Lukas had been. 

Whatever it’d been, if Lukas was Acting Head, then he sure as fuck wasn’t someone Tim wanted to meet. But not like he had a lot of other choice. He’d just have to hope Lukas wasn’t there. 

***

Tim slumped in the desk chair and stared at the clock ticking second after painful second on the far wall. Lukas hadn’t been there, but neither had Martin, though the still damp dregs of tea in the mug next to him told him Martin had been there. As did the note taped to the computer. _Don’t forget to update the schedule_ , it said, in a surprisingly elegant hand he recognized as Martin’s. So Martin had taken it over. Elias would be so proud. That, or horrified at what a mess Martin might’ve made of it. Tim sincerely hoped it was the latter. 

His eyes drifted shut, caution long since expended under the pressing weight of boredom. If he fell asleep and Peter Lukas killed him, that’d almost be a mercy. But as much as he tried to drift, he didn’t seem to be able to fall asleep. Of course not. That’d be too easy, wouldn’t it. And less likely to drive him mad. 

Despite the lack of true rest, he’d managed to slip into a kind of meditative state when he finally heard the door click open, and he shot up in his seat. Braced for what, he didn’t know, not when there was no where he could run, no way he could fight, not if Lukas saw him. But it was only Martin, and Martin—

Martin froze, arms clutched tight around a stack of paper, eyes wide and wild as he stared directly at Tim. For a second he thought Martin was going to say something, but then he just turned away, hunched his shoulders, and scurried over to a small table to the side. 

Which, fuck that. 

Tim got out of the chair, and tried not to think too hard about how that worked, the way it return to its place in the blink of an eye. His steps were as heavy as he could manage, and he knew Martin could hear, from the way he flinched. But when Martin finally turned around, he looked right through Tim, heading straight for the bookcase on the other wall. Or not straight for it, because instead of walking through Tim like everyone else had, he gave Tim a wide berth. Did he think he was being subtle?

“I know you can see me, so why the hell are you pretending I’m not here?” 

Martin’s hand shook as he reached for a book, and stared down at it in a way Tim knew meant he wasn’t actually reading it, that he was only using it as a pathetic excuse for a shield against whatever he thought Tim was.

“Do you think I’m…what, a hallucination?” 

Again, Martin flinched, confirming Tim’s suspicions. He guessed it almost made sense, that Martin would ignore him if he thought this was just a continuation of their shared dreams, if he thought he was going mad. Or worse, if he thought Tim was some sort of spook, come back to torment him. 

Tim looked Martin up and down, noticed the bags under his eyes, the tear in his jumper when Martin had always been so careful, never fashionable but always neat. Stressed, and that made sense, didn’t it? And Tim knew just the way to get him to relax. 

Even as he sunk to his knees in front of Martin, he wasn’t sure it’d work. Just because Martin could see him didn’t mean they’d be able to touch, and fuck did Tim just want to touch someone. Anyone. Maybe Martin specifically. The dreams, or whatever they’d been, had started to fade into a blurred mess of emotions and color, an impressionistic painting of memory. But they’d been nice. It’d been nice. To just forget, for a while, with someone who maybe understood. 

But he still hesitated, staring at Martin’s trouser leg, fingers hovering over the fabric. What did he have to lose? Just the tiny bit of hope he had left. Well, fuck it. He reached for Martin’s waistband. 

Felt Martin startle under his touch. 

The confirmation was enough to put any lingering doubts to rest as he fumbled for Martin’s fly, not bothering to do more than shove the offending fabric out of the way. As he wrapped his fingers around Martin’s soft cock, he realized his hand was shaking. From relief, that this was real. From terror, that it’d all fade away. From something else, small and feeble that Martin had breathed life back into from whatever he’d done in that dream. 

“Tim,” Martin said, finally acknowledging that he saw Tim, as he brushed surprisingly steady fingers against Tim’s hair. 

It was all the encouragement Tim needed. He nuzzled the warm exposed skin, then guided Martin’s hardening cock into his mouth, savoring the weight of it on his tongue, how quickly it responded to the motion of his head as he pulled off, then took Martin in again. The hand on his hair slid down the side of his cheek, pressing down, pushing it against Martin’s cock before trailing lower to his throat. Tim swallowed, and drank in the small noise Martin made in response. Martin’s fingers grazed over the column of his neck, trailing gently down his windpipe. Part of Tim wanted to recoil at the vulnerability, still afraid that the mask would be pulled away, that Martin might not be Martin, not anymore. But Tim shouldn’t even be alive. The fear he’d had before, it was just…gone. He didn’t know yet if that was a good thing, but it was enough for him to draw Martin deeper still, holding him steady with a hand on the base of his cock.

He began to set a rhythm, responding to each small sound Martin made, the twitch of his hand on Tim’s throat. Not guiding him, but holding him all the same, fingers scrambling until they found his pulse point, like Martin was checking for proof of life. And Tim would sure as hell give it to him. His eyes flicked up to take Martin in, cheeks flushed and lips parted. Tim wanted to kiss those lips, wanted Martin to kiss him like he had before, like he’d never kissed Tim at all. But not yet, not now, as Martin’s other hand came down to stroke his hair, to cup the back of his head, to anchor him as Martin came with a final, quiet cry. And Tim swallowed, bitter and sweet and almost wishing it wasn’t over, even as he ground the heel of his hand against his cock, struggling for some relief. 

As Martin began to soften in his mouth, Tim sunk back his heels, Martin’s cock sliding out from between his lips. In a minute, he’d ask what Martin did, if he could do it again, the writing, whatever other spooky shit he might’ve found. But right now he just wanted some relief. He fumbled with his trousers, cock pressed uncomfortablely against the zipper, until he heard a rustle of clothing, and a hand closed over his. He looked up, and was met with Martin’s lips, chapped just like he remembered, his tongue pushing inside as he guided Tim back against the bookcase. Then Martin’s hands replaced Tim’s, unzipping his trousers, warm and slightly rough on his cock while Tim groaned into his lips. It was weird, how natural this all felt, how natural Martin felt, body pressed to his, fingers running through his hair. And weirder still how easy it was to mutter Martin’s name as he came, to lean into the arm around his shoulder, and bury his face in Martin’s neck. 

“We need to talk,” Tim said. “No one else can see me.”

He felt Martin stir against him, but before he could get any stupid ideas about moving, Tim grabbed a handful of his jumper, holding him in place. “But I don’t think I’m going to disappear more.” 

Martin stilled, and Tim inhaled, breathing in the scent of wool and paper and faintest hint of the sea. 

***

They might’ve sat there longer, if Tim had been able to sleep. But even an orgasm didn’t seem to counter that miserable side effect of his liminal existence. And while Martin didn’t have the same problem, he seemed unable to relax, lifting his head every few minutes to glance at the door. 

“So, now it’s time for the fun post-sex talk. You remember the dreams, or did you just figure you don’t look a gift blowjob in the mouth?” 

“I—I remember. More or less. It’s all kind of—”

“Trippy?”

“A bit, yeah. But I remember it. All of it. I thought—” 

Tim felt him take a shuddering breath, his hand flexing where it was wrapped around Tim’s arm. 

“I thought it wasn’t real. That you weren’t real, that I just, I don’t know, that it was just…”

“You really wanted to fuck your dead colleague? That it was some sort of weird, Freudian guilt sex?” 

“No! I mean, yes? A bit, I guess. I don’t know, what was I supposed to think?” 

“That maybe given all spooky shit we’ve seen, there might be more to it?”

“I did think that. But…”

Right. Tim would’ve thought the same.

“If it was real, you thought it was probably something bad.” Tim snorted. “Still might be. I could be some sex demon, come back to seduce you to the dark side.”

Martin’s chest shook, and it took Tim a second to realize he’d laughed. When was the last time he’d heard Martin laugh? When was the last time he’d made anyone laugh? 

“You’d make a good sex demon. I mean, you’re, well, you know, you’re you.” 

“That’s what I’m hoping. Do you really believe that?” The question came out more plaintive than Tim had intended, and he realized he really meant it. That he needed to know if Martin believed he was who he seemed to be, when Tim still wasn’t sure of that himself. 

“Yeah, I— Yeah, I think I do. I’m not really sure what to do, though. The poetry, the writing, it was just.” He sighed. “A way to lay a spirit to rest. I found it in a book.”

“I’m not feeling very restful.”

Tim felt lips press against his temple, and arms tighten around him. 

“I noticed,” Martin murmured into his hair. 

Tim’s heart did an odd flip. It wasn’t like he’d never liked Martin, like he’d never considered the possibility, back in their early days in the Archives. Or later, directionless anger taking a sexual turn. But not…he didn’t know what this was, or where it came from. But it didn’t matter now. He needed to focus on the problem at hand, and not the way Martin had started rubbing circles into his skin.

“Can we try again? Because apparently your poetry might be literal magic. And it’s not likely to make it worse, is it?” Martin’s hand stilled, and Tim winced. “Right, what am I saying? It could absolutely make it worse. But it didn’t before, and it’s better than anything else I’ve got.”

The clock ticked onwards. Tim gave a momentary thought to Lukas, wondering whether he’d show up, but Martin seemed less concerned about it than he expected. The nervous glance he kept giving the door were wary, but not fearful. Martin’s chest rose and fell, and Tim felt him heave a sigh, and stir against him.

“I need to get some things. Wait here, okay?” 

He disentangled himself from Tim, but not before Tim gave into whatever bizarre biological function, oxytocin or dopamine, that told him it was a great idea to pull Martin back for one last lingering kiss.

“Tim,” Martin said, fingers pressed against his temple. 

Fuck. Fuck Martin, fuck this, fuck it all. 

“Yeah, I was pissed at you. At everyone. Maybe I still am.” He closed his eyes and let his head thunk back against the bookcase. “But I’m tired, and I just—” How could he say what he wanted to say when he still didn’t know what that was? Had he just found Martin because they were the only ones left from before? Wait. “What happened to Jon?” 

Tim didn’t open his eyes, but he did feel Martin stiffen where his fingers still rested against Tim’s face. 

“He’s—it’s not good, Tim. It’s been months, and he’s in a coma, or something like a coma? But it’s not, it’s not normal, and I don’t know if that’s good, or really, really bad?” His voice cracked, and Tim warred between the smoldering remains of his anger at Jon, and whatever they’d left behind. In the end, he stayed still as Martin took a shaky breath and continued. “It’s been too long. I’ll go get what I need, and actually, do you want any food or anything?”

Now Tim did open his eyes, and met Martin’s worried gaze. Always fretting, Martin was. So he hadn’t changed all that much after all. 

“No, I don’t think I do. Can’t sleep either. It’s great.” Based on Martin’s wince, the sarcasm came through nicely.

“Right, then I’ll just, I’ll just go? And come right back.”

He watched Martin scurry out of the room, staring listlessly at the door for a minute before dragging himself to his feet. His clothes, the clothes he’d—the ones he’d worn to the Unknowing, they were kind of a mess, but he wasn’t sure if he was real enough to change them, or if they’d just sort of fix themselves. Maybe it was like a dream, where if he thought about it hard enough, they’d be what he wanted. Maybe a nice designer suit, the kind Elias had always worn. Which, speaking of, he wondered what might be left in the desk that until quite recently had belonged to Elias. 

Rummaging through the drawers proved fruitless, just office supplies and a small book of poetry he was certain belonged to Martin. When Martin did finally come back, Tim had slumped back into the chair, thumbing through the pages. 

“So you can touch objects? Can other people see that?” Martin had a fountain pen eerily reminiscent of the one in the dream in his hand, and a familiar shape clutched under his arm that sent Tim’s stomach plummeting. 

He ignored the question. “Seriously?” he said, nodding at the tape recorder.

“It’s not to record. I mean, not for records that is, not like a statement. I just thought maybe it’d help?”

“Let the creepy eldritch god listen in? Sure, why not. What could possibly go wrong?” He dropped the book of poetry on the desk, still open on a page titled _A Sea of Loneliness._ Martin always had been kind of dramatic. 

“Well, no one can see you, can they?” Martin said defensively, setting the tape recorder down. “And it’s all about seeing.”

Not the worst plan, Tim had to admit, however reluctantly. It was weird, how good Martin seemed to be at the plan thing these days. He got to his feet, tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it onto the chair.

“You know, I kind of like the idea of having sex on Elias’s desk. Messing up all his beautiful antique furnishing while there’s nothing he can do about it.” He rested his elbows on the desk, leaning forward and wiggling his arse suggestively. “And if I die, might as well go out with a bang.” 

Martin’s lips hand parted, and the pen was drooping in his hand. Not that Tim wasn’t hot stuff, but either Martin was really into the idea of fucking him over Elias’s desk, or he really needed to get laid more often. But then again Tim couldn’t exactly talk, recently. He really hadn’t been the mood. But now…

“Carpe diem. Magnus Institute motto.”

Martin let out a huff of laughter. “It’s really not.”

“It should be. Carpe diem, because tomorrow we’ll all be worm food.” He stood up, kicking off his shoes, and began to work on his trousers. “Sorry, my Latin for ‘worm food’ is a bit rusty.” 

“I’m sure there’s something in the library.”

Tim’s pants followed his trousers, his cock already stirring with interest. Not like he had any shame left at this point. He leaned back of the desk, staring up at Martin, who’d so far failed to get with the program. 

“I wasn’t kidding about fucking over the desk.”

“I—” Martin’s breath stuttered, and he licked his lips. “Yeah, I can see that, but I don’t think, that is, I’m not sure what I have here?” 

“Martin, I’m totally insubstantial to everyone but you, quite possibly a ghost, totally clean, and really not inexperienced. I think we’ll manage.” 

“I mean—” Then Martin’s expression firmed. He set the pen down, and began to strip while Tim watched. 

It was kind of weird, seeing Martin naked. Not bad, just not an experience he’d ever thought he’d have. Not outside dreams, or magic dreams. Still wasn’t sure how much that counted. 

Martin carefully folded his clothes and set them on the desk, then turned back to Tim, clearly pretty damn interested in the proceedings. 

“Good thing you’re not as old as you were pretending to be, huh? Still not sure how anyone bought that, you really don’t look forty.” He gave Martin a lusty wink, and was pleased to see Martin roll his eyes. It was almost like—well, it didn’t matter. 

In fact, if this went wrong, it might all be incredibly irrelevant all too soon. And after the Unknowing, Tim wanted to try and go out on a high note, if that’s the way it was going to be. He almost said something to Martin, as he felt Martin come up behind him, smoothing one hand down his side. Just in case Martin hadn’t gotten the message, he ground his arse against Martin’s cock. Or rather, he tried to, as Martin’s hand tightened on his hip, keeping him in place. 

“Hold still,” Martin said. 

Tim braced himself. Despite what he’d said, it’d been a while, and there’d probably be a bit of a stretch. But instead of doing what he wanted, Martin just leaned over him, cock sliding against his arse in a way that was kind of appealing, but not nearly enough. 

“Okay, what happened to fucking? Because this is a lot of nudity just for some poetry.” 

“I just thought, well. If it works, maybe that’d be better?” 

“Or maybe I’ll die without ever coming on our psychopath boss’s desk. And wouldn’t that be a tragedy. The writing can wait, just—”

“Trust me,” Martin said. Almost begged, a plaintive note creeping into his voice. 

It was enough to hold Tim back, to keep him still as Martin’s hand slid up to his shoulder, and be began to write. 

As the sharp tip of the fountain pen pricked his skin, Tim took a moment to think about what it might mean. There was clearly a lot he’d missed, and Martin’s plan, it’d been dangerous. What had Elias done? Or maybe it wasn’t Elias, but what came after. Four months of…what? Fighting Lukas? Not that it looked like there’d been much of a battle. Trying to save Jon, if he knew Martin, but from what he’d said before, it sounded like he’d given him. The pen scratched against his skin, and Tim shivered as the cool ink flowed out, forming words he could only guess at. Probably something flowery, and sappy, and not that good but always heartfelt. 

He shifted, enjoying the small gasp Martin made as his cock rubbed against Tim’s skin. And while it wasn’t nearly enough, the slide of his own cock against Elias’s desk had a certain appeal to it. 

“Stop moving,” Martin said, his free hand pressing harder on Tim’s shoulder. “Or I’ll mess this up.” 

“And messing up can and will have some horrible consequence. Yeah, I get it.” And really, the writing itself had it’s own kind of appeal, the slow slide and scratch of the pen as Martin etched the lines into him in his flowing script. He’d always thought Martin’s handwriting was rather pretty. He hoped whatever this did, it stayed for a while. Maybe he’d check it out in the mirror, or even convince Martin to take a picture. Or just rewrite it again. Sort of weird for foreplay, but it kind of worked. 

Martin’s hand moved lower, holding his side as he made his way down to Tim’s arse, his breath hot on the sensitive skin as he leaned in closer. His hand lifted, finger running under a line of text, and Tim could hear him murmuring the words, though he couldn’t quite make them out. Something about the sea, which seemed a bit strange, but who was he to question an artist? And he was finally feeling almost tired, sagging against the desk even as Martin reached the end of his back. His muscles twitched as the pen dug into his arse, and he almost asked how far Martin was going to go, but the whole thing seemed to be getting farther and farther away.

Receding, like the sea.

***

Tim opened his eyes, and knew from the sick lurch of his stomach that something had gone wrong. The world seemed to shift and sway around him, and for a second he thought he might be on a boat, prodded by the memory of something about the sea. Receding, like—

Fuck. He took in the empty room, not Elias’s office, but the storage closet he’d often hid in when he couldn’t be bothered to work. Again he wore the same clothes he’d worn to the Unknowing, exactly as he’d worn them, and no sign Martin had been there at all. Had that all been a dream? Was he dreaming now? Or was this some sort of twisted hell, one built on the small hope that maybe someday he’d escape. But no, that couldn’t be it. He knew it was real, in a bone deep way he didn’t want to think about. 

He had to find Martin.

From the dregs of light streaming through the windows as he made it to the ground floor, it was late enough that most people, Martin included, should have already gone home. If he couldn’t find Martin, should he wait here? Or would it be better to act now, in case he faded again. Had the writing faded with him? It didn’t matter, he’d check it once he found Martin, once he found out how much time had passed, if any. 

When he reached Elias’s office, he didn’t even bother knocking. Reckless, but if Lukas was going to kill him, at least that’d be an answer of sorts. And just like last time, Lukas wasn’t there. Martin alone sat at the paper strewn desk, focused on the computer monitor.

He didn’t even wait for Martin to acknowledge him, crossing the room and shoving the chair back to straddle Martin’s lap, kissing him hard. Martin’s hand came up to grasp his arm, but he didn’t push Tim away, just kissed him back, until Tim finally came up for air. 

“Tim, you’re alive, I wasn’t sure, you just faded out, and I didn’t know what to do. I tried to look in any book I could find, even asked—” 

He looked away, like he couldn’t quite bear to meet Tim’s eyes. Which was not quite what Tim had been expecting, the air of guilt or the hesitant way Martin’s hand now gripped his elbow, even as the other curled around Tim’s arse, holding him on Martin’s lap. Guilt because he was blaming himself for something he couldn’t control? Something he hadn’t thought to do? Or was there more to it. God, he didn’t want there to be, but that old resentment flared, when Martin knew it’d all been wrong, but he’d refused to listen, refused to believe because it was easier to pretend everything was okay. 

“I don’t even care right now. I might fade at any second, and I just want, fuck.” He cupped Martin’s cheek. “Look, I just don’t want to be alone.” 

Martin flinched, but didn’t interrupt as Tim continued. 

“And I’m kind of sick of talking about it. That’s all we do here, isn’t it? Talk into tape recorders, because some spook wants us to.” He kissed Martin again. “And yeah, we barely know each other.”

“I wouldn’t say that, I mean, you…”

“You know about Danny, but do you know what I like to do in my free time? When I used to have free time, and a life.” Martin was silent. “Kayaking. Huge fan of it, I’ve always loved that water.” And again, Martin flinched, but Tim pressed on. “I haven’t really had any serious relationships. It was always something I thought I’d get around to someday, but then Danny—” He swallowed, and Martin’s arm slid around his waist. “But I didn’t.” He pressed his forehead against Martin’s. “I don’t have anyone. And I don’t think you do either.” 

“What do you want? I don’t, I don’t know what I can do, I don’t know how to fix this, I don’t even think I can.” 

Martin’s voice cracked, and his cheeks were increasingly damp. And sure, it was kind of messed up that Tim still wanted to fuck him, but if that was the worst thing he did today, he’d count it as a win. 

“Just be here. See me.” He pulled back, met Martin’s eyes. There was something strange in them, something dark he hadn’t noticed before. The final piece, and it was almost enough for him to ask, but before he had a chance Martin pushed him off his lap, dragging Tim to his feet and crowding him against the desk. 

“What do you want?” Martin said, hand cupping his neck, thumb over Tim’s pulse as it thudded in his throat. 

He almost took the obvious path, the easy path. Tell Martin what he wanted, and he’d go along, wouldn’t he? It was Martin, after all. And when Tim had cause to imagine it, that was always how it went. But he didn’t need to imagine it anymore. Not after the dreams. Not with that look into Martin’s eyes.

“Whatever you want.” Tim swallowed under Martin’s hand, and waited to see what he’d do. There was a thrill, not quite fear, not quite excitement, as Martin’s hand tightened. Not to the point it was painful, or even dangerous. Just enough to keep Tim there, helpless in his grasp. 

Martin didn’t break eye contact as he reached for Tim’s trousers. He didn’t ask for Tim’s help, and Tim didn’t offer, just wrapped his hands around the edge of the desk as Martin fumbled him free, wrapping his hand around Tim’s already hardening cock. The feeling of his hand sliding over the sensitive skin was too much, and not enough, dry and rough. A shitty handjob, Tim might say, if he were in a position to be critical. But he couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop staring at Martin, trying to read whatever was behind his eyes as he loosened his grip, and lifted his hand to Tim’s face. 

The fingers pressed against the back of his neck guided him forward as Martin ran his thumb over Tim’s lips, before pushing it into his mouth. He sucked on it eagerly, even as he squirmed against the desk, cock hardening further even without Martin touching him. Another finger slid past his lips, then a third, while Tim continued to lap at them eagerly. And then Martin pulled his hand free, returning to Tim’s cock, his hand now slick with spit. 

The speed he set was agonizing, and Tim almost snarled at him to go faster. But no, he’d said whatever Martin wanted. And there was a certain freedom to it. Not so much ceding control, but admitting that he’d never had any in the first place. His teeth dug into his lip, and he almost let his eyes drop shut, to further enjoy the sensation. But still he couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop studying the way Martin’s brow furrowed in concentration as he twisted his hand, tightened his grip.

Martin leaned in, teeth catching Tim’s lip in the same spot he’d bitten himself, drawing a moan from Tim as his pace increased. If this kept up, he’d make a mess of Martin’s clothes, but maybe that was what Martin wanted. Tim certainly wasn’t opposed. Leaving any sign that he’d been there, that he’d mattered even a little.

The heat built in his cock, and as he felt his balls tighten, he almost warned Martin. But Martin had claimed his mouth, tongue prodding deep inside, and all Tim could do was breath him in, low moan in the back of his throat as he came. 

Martin drew back slowly, lips red and wet as Tim sagged against the desk. The hand around his throat hadn’t relaxed, and despite Tim’s languor, some part of him was still eager to see what else Martin wanted. From Tim, and no one else, at least in this moment. 

A million suggestions clamored at his throat, but he swallowed them down, met Martin’s deliberate stare with a slight lift of his chin. 

“What if—” Martin’s lips tightened, his hands tightened, his whole body lined with a desperate determination. “Bend over the desk.” 

It was too soon, and it wasn’t what Tim had expected, but it was what he’d wanted before. Fucked over Elias’s desk. And if this was the way Martin wanted Tim, oversensitive and pliant in his arms, then he could have it. 

Tim shoved the papers out of the way, position mirroring the one he’d taken when Martin had written on his back. And he’d meant to ask, still wanted to know if it was still there. Almost did, but then Martin was yanking down his trousers and pants, pushing two fingers inside. Tim jerked against the desk, and whimpered as his oversensitive cock rubbed against it.

“Do you want me to stop?” 

The uncertainty from before seemed to have drained away entirely. Tim sucked in a breath, and then gritted out a response. “No. Fuck—” He could feel Martin’s cock pressed against him, but that was fine. He’d told Martin he could take it, and he could. And fuck, did he want it. “Please.” The last fell from his lips as Martin began to slide inside, his oversensitive flesh twitching at the very welcome intrusion. It was too much, but he needed it. “Please, Martin, please—”

Whatever hesitation he’d had before was gone as he fucked Tim, hard and steady, each movement taking him deeper, forcing Tim against the desk. Tim scrambled against the surface, looking for something, anything to hold onto, and found Martin’s hand, covering it with his, digging his fingers into the back. Martin adjusted the angle, and sent sparks Tim couldn’t quite process skittering. It wasn’t entirely pleasant, the way his way his cock brushed against the desk, how his skin seemed to sting at Martin’s every thrust. But it was exactly what he needed, overwhelming and wonderful. Enough to forget, and enough to remember. 

He felt Martin stiffen, and his hand twitched under Tim’s. Close, and then they’d have to talk, strung out and maybe now he’d get what he’d been looking for from Martin for far too long. He heard Martin gasp, and realized to late that the door was opening.

And Martin froze.

Bent over the desk, Martin’s cock up his arse, there wasn’t much Tim could do as a middle-aged man with weathered skin entered the room. Not someone he recognized, but he knew immediately from how casually he’d entered, from Martin’s reaction, that this had to be Peter Lukas. Clearly a man with impeccable timing.

His eyes focused on Martin, completely ignoring Tim. Which made sense, he guessed, if Lukas couldn’t see him. And yet what did Martin have to look like if that were true? Cock hanging in the air? Or maybe the force of Tim’s erasure was so strong that the worst Martin looked was flushed, and inappropriately aroused considering he was supposed to be working on admin. 

Whatever it was, Lukas seemed content to ignore it. But maybe that bad sense. After all, he was a spook. Elias had certainly been happy to ignore far more than a little questionable workplace masturbation. And whatever he might threaten in the long run, Martin didn’t seem to think he posed an immediate danger.

His eyes drifted to the papers on the floor, and a lazy smile touched his lips, though Tim could see there was nothing behind it. 

“Working hard?” He stayed by the door, and looked back over to Martin. 

“I was just, I mean, they fell, and I was about to pick them up.” Martin didn’t move, and Tim bit his lip, trying to hold still as well, with Martin still hot and heavy inside him. 

Lukas’s smile widened, guileless and false. “Why don’t you do that, then? I know we haven’t had many visits lately, but a donor could show up at any moment, and we do have to keep up certain professional standards.” 

“I—” Martin withdrew his hand from under Tim’s. “You’re right, I’ll just, I’ll do it now.” 

As Peter watched Martin placidly from the door, he began to withdraw from Tim, leaving him empty and aching and utterly unsatisfied in a way that had nothing to do with whether he’d come. After all, Martin had made sure of that. But this, Peter Lukas, he had to be doing this on purpose. Even if he couldn’t see Tim, he _knew_ , he had to know. 

Tim’s eyes followed Martin as he knelt down, trousers closed though Tim could still see a bulge. One by one, he stacked the papers, eyes fastened on the floor while Lukas looked on with an indulgent smile. And that—that wasn’t fake. He wanted something from Martin, not just petty obedience, but something more, that Martin could provide alone.

Alone.

It clicked just as Martin was standing, setting the papers back on the table. The Lukas family were one of the Institute’s biggest donors, which meant Elias had never liked them digging into their affairs. That’d largely stopped Tim, back when he’d had still cared what Elias thought, and then later he just hadn’t cared at all. But he’d chatted to Naomi Herne, comforted her as best he could after Jon had managed to be an insensitive git as per his usual. And she’d said she felt so alone, and then she’d looked him in the eye, and told him that it wasn’t just her. That there was something wrong at that estate, with that family. 

Even as the thoughts roiled in his mind, and the anger built, he didn’t move. Not when there was a chance Lukas could make this so much worse, if the whim took him. Right now he didn’t seem to particularly care about Tim, focused as he was on Martin. Except for a moment where Tim caught his eyes flicking to where he lay on the desk.

“I understand the work can be stressful, and you do need the occasional break,” Lukas said. “I’m not a monster, after all.” He chuckled at his own joke. “But really, Martin. We have important work to complete. Remember what you need to do, and why.”

“Right. I—I know. I will.” 

Martin didn’t glance at Tim, didn’t look away from Lukas. His shoulder squared, and Tim’s heart plummeted.

Then Lukas was gone.

Before Martin could even think about saying anything, Tim was yanking his clothes back on, trying to ignore the shaking in his hands, the way betrayal clawed at his throat. Why should be feel betrayed, after all? He should never have trusted Martin in the first place, not when he’d never done a damn thing for Tim. Ignoring the problems for so long, and then when he finally did something—

Tim let out a bark of bitter laughter, then walked over to Martin, taking the papers from his hands and dropping them on the desk. 

“You made a deal.” 

Martin didn’t even try and pretend he didn’t know what Tim was talking about, which was good, because Tim really wasn’t in the mood. 

“I did. You weren’t here, you don’t know what happened. I didn’t have a choice.” 

Tim’s hands clenched, fingernails digging into his palm. “No, I wasn’t here because I was dead. Or trapped. Or whatever kind of fucking purgatory this is. And you—”

“I tried to help you!” He took a step back, and Tim didn’t try to follow. “Nobody trusts me, nobody takes me seriously, or thinks I can do anything right.” He laughed, a strange, eerie sound. “And you know what? That’s fine. I get it. But now I’m doing something, and still it’s Martin, you idiot, what are you doing. It’s reckless, it’s stupid—”

“I’m not Jon,” Tim snapped. “Or—or Basira, or Elias, or whoever the hell else you think you’re trying to prove wrong.” He took a deep breath, trying not to shout, not sure why he was even bothering, except that Martin was truly all he had left. “You never did anything. Not for me. But I trusted you.” 

“I’m trying to change,” Martin said. “I’m doing something now, and I can’t—”

“Go back? Are you sure about that? Or are you choosing not to.”

Martin’s silence was answer enough.

“In the dream. That was before you made the deal, wasn’t it?” Again, silence. “I thought so.” He took a breath, the another. “Everyone is scared. If you think— If you think you have to do this. That you can’t help me. Then do it. But don’t pretend you have no choice. You have a shitty choice. But you still have one.”

Martin didn’t reach out. Neither did Tim.

“I need to protect them.” 

Protect them. Basira, Melanie, maybe even Jon, if he ever woke up. Martin’s eyes were bright, and fuck. Tim was just so tired. His hands relaxed at his sides.

“You can’t save everyone.” In a theatre, years ago. “Goodbye, Martin.” In a theatre, months ago.

He didn’t look back, even as Martin called out to him. Because it was his choice, even if it was a shitty one. 

***

Tim walked the streets, and tried not to think about Danny, or Sasha, or Martin. Not that it worked, but it gave him something to do, trying not to think. Maybe this would be the rest of his existence. Mindless wandering, until he slowly faded away. That might not be so bad. 

A drop of water splattered on his cheek, and the another. Of fucking course. He was largely insubstantial, but he was still getting wet. It figured that this was where his life, or his death, or whatever the fuck this was would end up. Huddled cold and miserable on a bench in a small park near Martin’s flat. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come here, what pathetic urge had drove him to stare out into the gloom like some lovesick idiot. Like he thought that Martin still might change his mind. That he thought Tim was worth—

He slammed his hand down against the bench. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fucking fair, and the worst of it was that he couldn’t even blame Martin, not really. He’d told Martin it was a choice, and it was, but was it the wrong one? If it protected everyone left, everyone who actually had a chance, why waste it on Tim? Even if Martin abandoning Lukas would bring Tim back, like he’d started to suspect, he’d still be a mess. Better to save the others, who might actually do something right. 

The cool water mingled with the damp heat on Tim’s cheeks as he continued to stare blindly down the street, watching people dart in and out of the buildings, finding what scant shelter was available. Was this worse than being trapped at the Institute? At least he could leave. Maybe go somewhere tropical. Or he could go look up Elias in prison and haunt him. He’d bet anything the bastard could see him, and maybe he wasn’t the best company, but it was better than nothing. And it’d be a chance to gloat about how he’d been beaten by Martin. 

There was a figure running down the street now, ignoring the sanctuary the buildings provided, heading steadily towards Tim. Whoever the poor sod was, he hoped they lived nearby. But they kept running, and even with the pounding rain, Tim realized he recognized that coat, navy with an odd light splotch over one the pockets where bleach must’ve spilled. His throat tightened, and he stood up, trying not to hope that this time, maybe—

Martin slammed into him, teeth clacking against Tim’s, biting his lip while he cupped Tim’s face between his hands. It was enough to jar Tim out of his funk, enough for him to push Martin away, to turn his back and start walking out of the park. But the slap of feet on pavement followed him, and a hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around, pinning him against the rain soaked bark of a tree. 

“I don’t really need you to pity fuck me,” Tim said, shoving a hand against Martin’s chest, keeping him back, far enough that he couldn’t break Tim’s resolve. It’d be nice, to be warm. But it’d make the inevitable end that much worse.

“You were fine with it before,” Martin snapped. “And anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I mean, I guess it is, but you’re right, I can’t, and you’re here, and I can’t—” 

He kept babbling, but the words didn’t matter, only what they meant. That Martin had made a choice, and that choice was Tim. His hand fell away, and it was all the invitation Martin needed to kiss him, wet and desperate as it continued to pour. Probably for the best, because the crying was getting kind of ridiculous, but you couldn’t tell in the rain. It was just one slice of warmth along with all the rest, Martin’s body pressing against his as Tim tugged him closer, fingers wrapped around the lapels of his coat. God, if Martin said he wanted to fuck him against the tree, right here, right now, Tim wasn’t sure he’d say no. Not with Martin’s lips pressed against his cheek, his neck, his mouth again. Not when Martin’s fingers were tangled in his wet hair, like he wanted to keep Tim here, like he cared enough to stay. 

“I told him no. I don’t, I don’t know what will happen. I’m not even sure if it’ll help, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t do it, and I don’t know if it was the right thing. He won’t protect the Institute anymore, and—”

“And we’ll worry about that tomorrow,” Tim said, yanking on Martin’s coat for emphasis. “You, and me. And Basira and Melanie, I guess. But not the likes of Peter Lukas.”

“I don’t know what we can do.”

“Gertrude managed, didn’t she? Stopped all sorts of rituals. And yeah, we don’t have any spooky powers, but maybe.” Tim took a deep breath. Let the remaining bitterness drain away. “Maybe that means our first step is finding a way to wake Jon up.” 

Something flashed across Martin’s face as he pulled Tim close again, burying his face in Tim’s neck. Something he might ask about someday. But not today. Not now. 

They stood there, as the rain poured down. And maybe this didn’t mean anything. Maybe Tim was wrong, and Martin wasn’t the key. Maybe Martin was already too far gone. But fuck if he wasn’t going to enjoy this while it lasted, even if it was only as long as the rain.

“Your flat’s nearby, isn’t it?” 

***

The trip back to Martin’s flat was a blur, broken by Martin shoving him against the wall of a nearby building, hand under his shirt, fingers scrabbling against rain soaked skin. When they finally fumbled their way inside, Tim was happy to shuck his sodden clothing, to let Martin drag him towards the twin bed tucked into a corner of a tiny bedroom. 

Later they’d probably regret it, two adult men tangled together in such a small space. But for now, Tim relished it, and Martin seemed just as enthusiastic when he pulled Tim down on top of him. The cold had put a bit of a damper on the proceedings, but that was remedied easily enough. 

But when Tim tried to pull away to take Martin into his mouth, his arm remained firmly around Tim’s waist, holding him in place. 

“I don’t want to let go,” he admitted, other hand combing through Tim’s hair. 

“You’re really something, you know? When you try.” Tim pressed his forehead to Martin’s, brushing his lips against the bridge of Martin’s nose. 

It was awkward, Martin half slumped against the pillows, and Tim over him, wrapped in his arms. The angle wasn’t the best, as he ground down, feeling warmth return, and Martin’s cock slowly stirring in response. But it was nice, fuck it was nice, the way Martin kept kissing every inch of his face, the way his hand tightened on the back of Tim’s neck. He only let go to fumble for the drawer, handing a bottle of lube to Tim, who slicked Martin’s cock. They’d already done this early, and with less. So Tim was more than ready for it as he sunk down, thighs trembling until finally Martin was as deep as his body would take. 

Martin’s hands moved to his waist, while Tim looked his arms around Martin’s neck, kissing him lazily as he let Martin set the pace, guiding him up and down. His own cock bobbed between them, neglected except for the occasional brush of skin, but he didn’t even care. This was what he needed, Martin’s hands bracketing his hips, large and warm, keeping him here. Drinking in the sounds Martin made, the small, desperate noises, and giving them back in turn. It might not fix anything. It wouldn’t even come close to fixing everything. But maybe, maybe—

“Tim, I—I’m sorry, and I don’t—” Martin’s hands tightened on his hips, and he stilled. 

“Shut up,” Tim said, and that was all Martin needed as be brought Tim down again, gasping against his shoulder as he came. 

They sat like that for a moment, their breathing the only sound in the room as Martin softened inside him. And in that moment, Tim dared hope that this wouldn’t be the last time. That he’d feel it all again, and maybe someday Martin would have something beside apologies. That maybe it was sooner than he thought. 

With a sigh, Martin pulled out, shifting Tim to the side and curling around him, one hand going to his cock, already slick with precome. 

“Like the dream,” Tim murmured, but there was no strange, wavering lamp here, and Martin’s hand wasn’t the perfect circle. Large and rough, and his leg was cramping, and they hadn’t dried off before crawling in bed, which made the sheets uncomfortably damp. And that was why it was right, why it was real, as Tim came with his back pressed against Martin’s stick chest, still tangled in his arms.

***

Tim woke up, and that was the strangest thing of all. Maybe it meant nothing, another trick. Or maybe it was another step on a long road. But it felt right, it felt different. His clothes were still piled on the floor, and Martin was snoring against his back. He’d need to do something about that, but it not right now, because as he shifted, the snoring stopped, and he felt a lazy kiss on the back of his neck.

“You know, I’m starving,” Tim said. Another sign, and he could tell Martin knew what it might mean as well, the way his arm tightened before he let Tim go, slinging his legs over the edge of the bed to get ready to go out. 

Martin’s clothes were too big, but that almost made it better, a reminder of the change as they stepped out of Martin’s flat. The hallway was narrow enough that their shoulders kept brushing, and yeah, maybe Tim was doing it on purpose. Just because he could.

As they turned the corner, Martin pushed Tim against the wall, nipping at his lips until they parted, mouth still warm but lacking the desperation from before. Another thing Tim could get used to, hoped to get used to, for however long this lasted. 

A door slammed, and Tim glanced over his shoulder. Some neighbor of Martin’s, giving them a dirty look and grumbling about young people before continuing down the corridor. 

“Young people,” Tim repeated, then met Martin’s eyes filled with wild hope. 

Martin clearly had realized it as well, kissing Tim again, pressing up against him in a way that probably started to deserve the derisive comment. 

“Didn’t know you were into exhibitionism. It’s never really been my thing, but I think we can still make this work.” 

And Martin laughed, too loud and slightly hysterical as he buried his face in Tim’s shoulder, rubbing circles against Tim’s back. Tim was smiling, and he didn’t know why. The world was still fucked, but this one thing, this one thing had _worked_.

The laughter slowly died, and Martin looked up. 

“I can’t feel it anymore. The Lonely.” 

He sounded sad in a way Tim didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. But he didn’t pull away, and that was what mattered now.

“You’re not going to leave?” Martin said, brushing back his hair.

“Where the fuck would I go?” Tim replied. “Let’s get something to eat.”

He tugged Martin down the corridor, their fingers intertwined. It might still be the end of the world. 

But at least they wouldn’t face it alone.


End file.
